“What are you doing?” Smitty asks.
“Quiet,” I reply.
“I’m bored.”
“Stop talking.”
I look through the tiny cracks of light seeping through the mud-covered window. The sun peeks over the horizon, hiding like a kid from a bully. I don’t blame it. If I didn’t have to, I’d never go out. It’s safer that way. For me and for everyone else.
Nothing in sight.
I exhale slowly as I twist the knob of the door.
“Come back soon, honey!” Smitty laughs.
I shake my head.
The rusty hinges creak until the door is wide open. I grab hold of a frayed piece of rope attached to a moss-covered plank of wood covering the entrance and yank on it. The wood scrapes along the metal track at the bottom, then bounces a little as it settles into place. It’s rudimentary, but it does the trick.
The actual doorway is hidden behind this wall of rotting wood. From a casual passerby, it’s like a natural part of the landscape. And the roof is worn and swampy green, matching the vegetation of the woods perfectly. No one, unless specifically looking for it, would be able to find my hideout.
I inspect the forest around me. It’s quiet. This is either a good sign or a terrible one. I see no movement.
Good sign this time.
I shut the door and slide the homemade barn door back in place, leaving Smitty behind. I go about my daily activities: collect water from the creek, check traps, clean traps if needed, scavenge for food.
It’s mundane, but it keeps my mind off everything else.
***
“Did you bring me anything?” Smitty asks as I walk back into the shed. I don’t answer, but grab the piece of rope on the sliding door and tug on it hard. The camouflaged wooden barn door settles into place.
I shut the main door behind and lock it.
“Dude, I’m starving!” Smitty complains.
I try to ignore him.
“Hey you gotta at least feed me. Aren’t there rules about how you treat prisoners or something?”
I shake my head. “You’re not a prisoner.”
He guffaws. “No? Then why do you have me locked behind metal bars?”
My eyes dart to the tiny cell in the corner of the shed. It’s 3 feet by 5 feet. A large, silver lock dangles over the door. The cell was already here when I found this place. What it had been used for, I have no idea, but now it keeps Smitty in.
Smitty sits in the corner, clothes ripped, hair unkempt. His body has lost all muscle definition, leaving a flimsy replica of his former self. It’s hard to see the kid I grew up with in there.
“They’re to protect us,” I mumble, hating myself as I say it.
He laughs even harder.
“Shut up!” I whisper. I look out the window, scared of what he might attract.
“Us? Then why aren’t you locked up in here with me?”
“You know why.”
He begins to say something, but I toss some scavenged, canned tuna at his feet. Without hesitation, he lunges toward the food, rips off the partially opened metal lid, and scarfs it down.
He breathes heavy like a boxer trying desperately to stay standing, but losing the fight. I look away. A palpable flood of guilt rushes over me.
This is all my fault.
When he finishes eating, he sits back against the wall.
I curl up in my pile of old blankets and coats on the wall opposite and go to sleep.
***
I awake to shuffling sounds coming from Smitty’s cell. Looking up, I see him pacing, an oddly snarled grin on his face.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” he says when he notices I’m awake.
I roll over. It’s still dark out, and I’m too wiped out to deal with Smitty.
“Come on, can’t we just talk? I can’t sleep.”
“We have nothing to talk about,” I protest.
“It’s just the two of us now. We’ve got to talk at some point.”
I place a jacket over my head and try to shut him out.
“Hey, you’re the reason we’re stuck here. The least you can do is pretend we’re friends.”
“We are friends!” I exclaim. “It’s just…never mind.”
“I get it.” Smitty replies. “I’d feel guilty too if I were you. It’s pretty messed up what you did. But guess what? I forgive you.”
I’m taken aback.
“How can you forgive me?” I ask, suddenly involved in the conversation.
“Easy. You’ve been my best friend since pull-ups. One mistake doesn’t change that. I’ve moved on.”
I shake my head ferociously. “It was a big mistake.”
“Yeah. That’s true.”
He’s quiet.
I turn to face him. He’s still. Contemplative.
“And you’ve got me locked up in here. All signs point to the fact that I should definitely not forgive you. But I do all the same.”
I don’t believe him. He can’t forgive me. I wouldn’t forgive me. I haven’t forgiven me. And he’s in no state to be forgiving.
“Well, it’s still the middle of the night. Just leave me alone.”
I flip over and fall back to sleep.
***
I peel one eyelid open, then the other. A faint beam of light shines on Smitty. He’s sitting now, staring at me.
“Do you miss being around other people?” he asks.
“No,” I say too emphatically.
“You’ve never been able to lie.” He laughs. “Remember that time before all this? Back in the old neighborhood? We snuck out one night to camp in the woods. Started that huge bonfire which we most definitely weren’t supposed to make. Remember?”
I nod.
He continues, “We got home before anyone even knew we’d left. We were in the clear. But you couldn’t live with the guilt. First moment you saw your mom, you confessed what we did.”
“Who cares?” I retort.
“You do miss people. You miss Sam.”
I think of Sam. Her caring eyes and gentle smile. Her embrace. The way she was so optimistic even when I only saw darkness.
“Yeah.” I wipe a tear.
“Then go back to them. Go back to her,” Smitty almost pleads.
“I can’t.”
He grunts. “You’re infuriating!”
A sudden scraping sound ends the conversation then and there. I grab my hockey stick, sharpened at the handle, and leap to my feet. A shadow passes the filthy windows.
“Need some help?” Smitty asks.
“No.”
I wait a moment, hoping whatever is outside will pass by. It’s quiet again and I’m hopeful we’re safe.
Then: “In here! Hey!” Smitty cries.
“Stop,” I hiss. “What are you doing?”
He smiles and begins to yell.
“Shut up! Stop!”
I rush the cell and hold the hockey stick toward Smitty’s skull. He looks up at me, his eyes pained. Sadness and anger and something else.
“Please, stop.” I begin to cry. “Please.”
Whatever is outside bangs on the walls of the shed. It’s sporadic, not like a logical, thinking person. It’s one of them.
“We’re in here! Come get us!” Smitty screams.
I can barely see Smitty through my tears now. I panic and swing the hockey stick, blunt end up, toward his jaw. It connects, and he falls back, silent.
But the scratching and banging continues. With a sigh, I stand up as quietly as I can. It’s no use; the Dummy has my scent now. I could try to wait it out, but it won’t give up. I’ll die of dehydration before it moves on. And worse, it could attract others, if it hasn’t already. Then there’s a far worse fate than dehydration to worry about.
I use the hockey stick and bang on the wall opposite the door. The shadow moves around toward the sound of my banging. It won’t be fooled long though, so I pull the inner door open and slide the outer one aside.
The brisk air surprises me, sending my adrenaline rushing.
I scan the area around me. Luckily, it seems like I’m dealing with a loner, so I head to the back of the shed undeterred. As much as I hate dealing with Dummies, I’ve had enough experience with them that I’m confident in my ability to put one down.
When I turn the corner, the Dummy is already lumbering back to me. Its nose is tilted up as though sniffing the air. The flesh on its face hangs in ghastly shreds, revealing too-white bone underneath. This guy was definitely part of another Dummy’s meal before his change.
Its clothes are torn almost completely off, revealing a bulbous mesh of intestines protruding from its belly, dragging along the ground. In its attempt to get to me, the Dummy actually trips over its own guts and stumbles to the ground.
I feel pity for this thing that used to be human. Past its macabre façade is a sad creature looking for something it will never find—peace.
It claws its way toward me and lunges in a final attempt to overtake me.
I strike, jabbing the Dummy in the eye socket. It slumps to the ground. A grotesque squishing noise follows as guts smash under its weight.
I slam my eyes shut and count to 10 while taking deep breaths and walking backwards.
Then I slip into the shed.
Smitty stares at me from the cell and croaks, “I forgive you.”
Grabbing a couple water jugs, I head back out, locking the shed behind me. Time to refill and clean up.
***
My eyes open. Smitty sits in the cell, staring off in the middle distance. He doesn’t talk. Doesn’t move.
Another day: collect water from the creek, check traps, clean traps if needed, scavenge for food.
When I get to the first trap, it’s empty, so I make my way to the next. They’re spaced evenly around the shed as a sort of barrier between my shelter and Dummies stumbling around. Sometimes I get lucky and find a rabbit or wild turkey struggling to get loose. But that’s rare. Not too many animals tramp around these woods anymore. Not when the apex predator never rests and is never satisfied.
When I get to the second trap, I notice something tripped it, but no Dummy squirms to get free and there’s no lunch waiting for me, so I bend over to reset it.
“Stop right there,” a strained voice calls, the distinct click of a gun reaches my ears.
I freeze, my back to the stranger’s voice. I hear shuffling feet and sense a presence behind me. His figure casts shadows.
“Stand up slowly,” he demands.
I obey, not wanting any trouble.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
I shake my head.
I see his shadow dancing around. I’m sure he’s searching the forest for signs of other people.
“I don’t have much. Just some water. It’s yours if you want,” I say.
He’s quiet for a moment. “You are alone.”
I don’t react. I’ve found it’s better to remain impassive during interactions with unknown people. They can be volatile.
“Do you have a safe place to camp?” he asks. I can hear a tremble in his voice. Here’s a man desperate for an escape from the outside world.
“I don’t. I’m just wandering.”
“You’re lying!” he accuses.
“Even if I do, you’ve got a gun pointed at my back. Why would I take you there?”
Silence.
Then, I feel a bony hand yank on my shoulder. He whips me around so I can see him. A small pistol hangs at his side.
The first thing I notice are his eyes. They’re sunken so far down his eye sockets that they’re barely the size of marbles. Huge, dark bags surround them like dirt-covered cotton balls, almost swelling around the entire upper half of his face. His body is emaciated, obviously starving. And his clothes almost look like he stole them off a Dummy, which he very may well have.
If I wanted to, I could rush him right now, knock him unconscious, and be on my way. But I’m not that far gone.
I hand him a jug of water and pull out another can of tuna from my pocket. Without a word, he takes my offerings and squats on the ground. I watch him as he devours the sustenance, breathing heavily as he does so. It reminds me a bit of how Smitty eats.
“I’m Henry,” I say.
He wipes his mouth and mumbles, “Owen.”
“Listen, Owen, I do have a place to sleep, but I can only let you stay one night.”
He nods. “One night. Deal.”
“You probably won’t like it there anyway. It’s…cramped.”
He shakes his head, “I’m fine with whatever.”
“And you’ve got to let me hold on to your gun,” I conclude.
He tightens his grip on the gun, flipping it over like he’s inspecting it. Then, he sets it on the ground.
I snag it and inspect the clip. Empty.
I look over at him. He shrugs. “Ran out of bullets.”
“Well, come on.” I lead him back to the shed.
***
“Just so you know,” I say as we get to the entrance of the shed, “my friend is inside.”
Owen nods. “Sure. I’m just grateful to have somewhere indoors to sleep.”
I think about explaining more, but I don’t. Instead, I pull the barn door open and then push the inner door wide.
I gesture for him to go inside while I lock everything down. Once I’m certain the doors are secure, I look back up. Owen hasn’t moved. He’s staring in the direction of Smitty who’s holding onto the bars of the cell, a smile on his face.
“I see you brought a visitor,” Smitty announces.
“Smitty, this is Owen,” I say.
“You gonna pass out on us, guy?” Smitty asks.
Owen turns to face me. He’s pale. Panic scribbled all over his face.
I hold my hands up, palms facing Owen. “Everything’s cool.”
Owen opens his mouth to speak, but nothing escapes his lips.
“I can see you’ve got questions. Let me explain a few things before you freak out.”
“Oh, please don’t,” Smitty complains. “No one wants to listen to your boring stories.”
“For once, just be quiet,” I plead.
Owen furrows his brows. And I can make out a slight change in his stance. He’s standing on the balls of his feet. Slightly crouched. Hands twitching. A defensive position.
“I didn’t say anything,” Owen responds.
“I was talking to Smitty. He’s an incessant talker.”
“But he’s…he can’t…” Owen stammers. “I’m just going to go.”
I nod. “If that’s what you want, go ahead.”
He hesitates, obviously wondering if he can trust me. And as he takes an uncertain step, his foot trips over an empty water jug, sending him falling backward with a loud thud.
That’s when Smitty attacks. He yanks on Owen’s hair, dragging him closer to the cell.
Owen screams so loud I’m sure any Dummies around will hear.
I rush at him. Owen’s marble eyes go wide as he squirms away from me.
“I’m trying to help,” I say.
Unconvinced, Owen writhes and kicks. At the same time, he fights to pry Smitty’s hands off him. But Smitty only claws more ferociously. Blood encasing his fingernails.
Owen keeps screaming and fighting. But he’s powerless against Smitty’s raw strength.
“Smitty, stop!” I yell.
But, of course, he doesn’t. He can’t help himself.
I manage to grab one of Smitty’s hands, but he only digs in deeper into Owen’s flesh with the other. Now he’s moving his head toward Owen’s, smashing it against the bars. His mouth opens and closes in chomping motions, trying desperately to get to his next meal.
“Smitty, please don’t make me do this,” I plead. “Fight it. Please!”
It’s no use. He’s not Smitty anymore—the carefree, overconfident kid I grew up with. He’s something else.
I turn and search the ground for my hockey stick. Under a pile of coats, I feel the sharpened edge on my fingertips, and pull it up. Without hesitating, I jab it through Smitty’s temple, thrusting it into his brain.
He’s dead weight. His hand releases from his victim. Snot and blood run down Owen’s hollowed-out face.
I throw the stick away and try to help Owen up.
“I’m so sorry,” I say. “Are you okay?”
His face is smeared in dark, sticky blood and he’s shaking violently.
That’s when I notice his hair is matted on the top of his skull. Blood rushes from an open wound where his hair used to cling to his roots.
A bite.
I look back at Smitty, pieces of Owen’s hair and torn skin protrude from his gaping mouth.
I’ve failed again.
Owen no longer cries. No longer screams.
Instead, a gurgling, guttural noise escapes his mouth. His body begins to twitch as though his bones are trying to break out of the skin. Which is all too possible.
Without thinking, I pull a chain necklace from under my shirt. A key dangles from it. I grab ahold of it, yank it off my neck, and insert it into the lock of the cell. The lock releases, so I pull it off and let the door swing open.
Smitty’s decaying body flops to the ground. I drag him away as gently and quickly as I can, then turn my attention to Owen, who is standing up now. He’s staring at me with those distinct Dummy eyes. Glossy. Uncaring. Hungry.
He lunges, but I sidestep and push him square in the back until he’s against the wall of the cell.
Slam!
I shut the door and return the lock to its rightful place. Owen grabs for me from inside his new prison, but I’m too far away.
He continues fighting against the bars.
No use.
I lie on the ground and begin to sob.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I never wanted anyone to get hurt.”
Smitty is dead-dead. And Owen has become his replacement.
I pass out, unable to stand what just happened.
***
I peel one eye open, then the other. Owen sits in the cell. He stares at me.
“What are you doing?” Owen asks.
“Quiet,” I reply.
“I’m bored.”
“Stop talking.”
But he won’t.
